Weapon Of Choice
by LittleMissMorgenstern
Summary: Emma is acting strange. Can Jules discover what is on her mind, or can he help … take her mind off it?
1. Weapon Of Choice

"Emma, I don't think," Jules began - and broke off, flabbergasted, as Emma plucked off one of the multiple pairs of steel cuffs adorning the walls. "What are you doing? You shouldn't be touching that stuff."

Julian watched suspiciously as she weighed the object in her hand, turning it over and running her fingertips over the surface of the sparkling metal. He had grown accustomed to Emma's familiar habits, even the more personal ones that had merged into her daily training routine over the years since her parents had died: the way she studied Cortana almost hypnotically before setting her mind to training, the way she caressed the hilt as if it were her only love.

He knew that bond had been forged the day Jules himself had offered Cortana to her after she'd discovered her parents deaths', and he had watched her, helpless, as she'd clutched the blade so tight to her chest that blood ran down her bare arms; she had the scar that ran up her right arm as a symbol of her grief, a haunting memory that never failed to make her scream herself awake at night.

But this item in particular was a pair of metal shackles, and bore no connection to her whatsoever. So why was she gazing at it with that dreamy look in her eyes?

Still gripping the manacles in her left hand, she reached up and selected a wicked-looking whip from the nearby wall before turning on her heel and leaving the room.

Julian stared after her for a moment, confused. He knew his _parabatai_ only too well that this meant he were to follow. He shadowed her footsteps, shaking his head irritabily.

As soon as he walked into her bedroom, Emma turned and banged the door closed in his wake. Julian tore his eyes away from her to scour the room, searching for any sign of change in her routine. Nope: there was her dissaranged mountain of dirty clothing dominating a single corner of the room; there, her violin lying carefully in its case on the trunk at the foot of her king-sized bed; here, the doors of her wardrobe standing open, revealing the shelf of glittering garments inside. The floor-length curtains were thrown aside, letting in bright afternoon sunlight. The ocean shimmered like a glass surface far, far down below.

Jules started when he felt a warm pressure on his upper arm. He turned and saw Emma standing beside him, her eyes following her hand as she slowly began to move it up his arm. Her touch sent little shivers over his skin.

"Are you alright?" he asked. Goosebumps rose on his arms. "Emma, what's wrong?"

"Are you cold?" she asked quietly, ignoring his question. She moved closer to him and raised her head, her eyes meeting his own. Hers were a very dark brown, like melted chocolate, the pupils dilated like endless black tunnels.

He searched her face frantically, but he had witnessed Emma intoxicated enough times to know that this was something else entirely.

As he drew breath to reply, she said, softly, "Kiss me."

Jules made a sputtering sound. _"What?"_ Emma merrily looked at him, blinking like a lizard. "Emma, we can't. We're - we're _parabatai!_ It's against the law!"

"Oh, screw the law! Actually, no, don't. If you're going to screw someone, screw me!"

"Emma!"

"Julian!" she retorted. Her expression had hardened; she sighed and it smoothed out, like wrinkled paper. "Look, it won't mean anything. The Clave can't punish us if it doesn't mean anything. Just kiss me."

Jules wasn't convinced. He and Emma had shared chaste kisses when they had been younger, because their curiosity had gotten the better of them. But this seemed ... different. They were both in their teens, and Emma had had experience with this sort of thing before. Surely she couldn't be _that_ curious. "Why?" he asked.

"Because I'm asking you to," she said. "I _want_ you to."

He was shaking his head before she'd even finished speaking. "No. No, Em, we can't-"

His eyes fluttered closed at the familiar tickle of her fingertips on his forearm. She wrote: K-I-S-S M-E. And then, when he gulped nervously, she added: I-L-L S-H-O-W Y-O-U H-O-W.

He opened his eyes and looked down at her. It was almost impossible to see Emma, his best friend since childhood, as something other. She was physically beautiful, he realized: soft brown eyes, long blonde ripples draping to her waist, elegant cheekbones that formed shallow dimples beneath them. He had never thought, never even dared to conjure such a thought: that she was beautiful on the outside. He'd never regarded her as such. He'd always admired her for how beautiful she was on the inside, her determination and the fire that drove her to drastic actions.

As he looked at her, really _looked_ at her, he recognized that steely stubbornness seeping out of her. She wore it like protective armour, and he had been too oblivious to realize it.

She was beautiful, inside and out.

As if in a dream, he reached up to cup her face between his palms, felt the hot flush of her skin as she blushed. When she closed her eyes, her long fair lashes cast spidery shadows over her cheeks; never had he noticed such a subtle movement. Never had he taken the lead in such situations, nor had he ever been in such a situation. But suddenly, it was as if he'd done this a thousand times before; the movements came naturally to him.

He stared at her mouth, wondering what they tasted like, how soft they would feel to his touch. He marvelled, drinking in her features. Emma's eyes fluttered open. "What are you -?" she started, but the rest of her words were lost against his lips as he brought them down on hers, softly.

It was a bit like kissing a dishwasher; all saliva and tongues and lips and Jules wondering whether he was doing it right and Emma grabbing a hold of his hand to entiwne her fingers with his, ordering him to slow down. Jules relaxed at her touch, and he was drowned by the sudden flash of comfort he received at the thought that it didn't matter to Emma where his lips touched; it was okay to get it wrong the first time. What mattered was this moment. Time ceased to exist.

Their lips brushed together, once, twice, three times, and then they were gasping for air as if they had been drowning, and Emma was laughing and Julian was smiling back at her.

And then silence.

They stood and regarded each other warily, their faces flushed, breathing hard - and then they were kissing again.

Jules couldn't have said who reached for who first, only that they reached for each other, fingers tangling in hair and lips meeting lips. His hands were pressed against the small of her back, crushing her to him; hers explored his body as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world, fisting in his hair and rucking up under his shirt, looping into the waistband of his jeans and urging him onward.

She tasted like sulphur and cinnamon and unbelievably _Emma_ - how was it possible for someone to have a taste? She bit down on his lower lip; he tasted blood, and grimaced momentarily before he returned the gesture. She gasped and guided him toward the bed, stumbling as they went.

They fell against the duvet, gasping and breathless, Jules's heart beating like a hummingbird. Emma lay beneath him now; he raised himself up onto his elbows so as not to crush her with his weight.

Wide brown eyes stared up at him, wondering and dangerous. Driven by a strange desire, Julian bent and brushed his lips to the pulse at her throat, and he was savagely pleased when she gasped and arched up against him, her breasts flattening against his chest.

Slowly, deliberately, he kissed a trail down her throat as he drew her shirt upward and paused momentarily as he jerked it from over her head. He stared. Underneath she wore a black lace bra, her waving locks falling over her breasts like a waterfall. The skin of her stomach glistened as if she'd smoothed moisturizer over it, but then he realized that her six-pack was gleaming with sweat.

He ran a hand over the compacted muscles wonderingly; she shuddered. She was so beautiful, his heart contracted in his chest at the sight of her. He went to kiss her chest when she held a finger against his lips. "Wait," she whispered.

He stayed silent as she rolled partway over on the bed, her hand twisting beneath her. She drew her arm back. In her hand was the pair of metal shackles she'd picked up from the Weapons Room earlier, the silver winking in the sunlight like a promise.

"Tie me," said Emma, and offered them to Jules.

Jules stared. "Um … That's … kinky …"

She giggled knowingly, but didn't answer.

With a sigh, Jules took the cuffs.

"Tell me what to do," he said.


	2. Engulfed In Flames

Jules recalled a time long ago, the sound of children's laughter and skittering feet. When he and Emma had played Cops and Robbers.

Emma had always ordered he impersonate the officer. He had tried, and failed miserably; he'd never been exceptionally good at dominating another. He remembered fumbling nervously with the cuffs as he attempted to bind her wrists behind her back. He remembered the way she had fidgeted intentionally in his grasp so that he would have no choice but to push his body against hers, pinning her form against the car.

He had always wondered why he'd never been capable of doing it, why he always wound up doing such a miserable job of controlling Emma. He realized now.

Cops and Robbers, what Julian had always assumed was child's play to the both of them, meant something more physical to Emma. Emma strived to be dominated, sexually or otherwise. Jules had been oblivious to her bizarre behaviour back then, but he knew better now.

He clicked the manacles in place with ease and stared down at her. She lay beneath him, looking small and fragile, stretched out on the bed like an angel. Her hands were outstretched on either side of her, both wrists bound to the bedposts. She was as beautiful and deadly as a dagger. If he were going to paint her, he thought, he would make the outline of her profile soft and blurry, while her facial features stood out, stark and sharp like a photograph switched to chrome.

He didn't voice those thoughts, though. He may be inexperienced with this sort of thing, but he knew "If I could paint you …" wasn't a good starting point.

Instead, he said, "Tell me what to do."

"Oh, Julian," she sighed. Bright spokes of sunlight cast spidery shadows over her cheeks as she blinked, glistening across her sweaty skin. He would draw her with her eyes closed, he thought; capture the dark pleasure in the set of her parted lips, with warm pillars of sunlight shining down on her. An angel. "Don't you know how this dominance thing works?" He cocked an eyebrow. "_You_ have to do the tempting. You have to tell me" – here she arched up against his chest, her weight supported by the bonds and her hair making a waterfall down her back, and whispered into his ear: "… _every_thing you intend on doing to me."

She settled back against the bed, looking gratified. Strange warmth settled about him, and, without his own volition, his joints moved. They moved like liquid, with ease and purpose, all coherent thoughts pressed from his mind.

He lowered his head and pressed a chaste kiss, as slight as a brush of a feather, against her temple, her cheek, the side of her mouth, creating a trail of kisses down her throat, her chest, over the hard muscle of her stomach. The fire was suddenly ablaze inside of him as Emma shuddered apart, her muscles tensing as she tried to hold herself together. The shackles clanged against the bedposts as she gasped, ripples of warm pleasure coursing through her body.

No words were needed; with each press of his lips on her skin spoke a word, a promise of all the things he intended on doing.

Julian smoothed his hands up her bare stomach, shaping the curves of her hips, and was rewarded with a noise of surprise from her mouth.

Never had he received such an effect from a gesture so subtle; never had he had such an effect on someone. And he wasn't about to let this moment slip through his grasp.

He brought his mouth down on hers, gently, suddenly finding no pleasure in just touching her but becoming as one. It was almost unbearable, being so close to her and yet so far away, reaching, always reaching.

Emma returned his kiss with ferocious urgency, deepening the kiss until it became all fire and wanting. He groaned against her mouth, making her wrists jerk in their bonds, and he smiled with savage satisfaction.

Emma didn't seem to notice the quirk of his lips, though; instead, when he was about to break apart for air, he heard the distant grind of the shackles against the bedposts. He knew they had broken, shuddered apart from the pressure Emma was relying on, but a small fraction of him was pleased.

Pleased that now, he could take things further.

Emma's hands found his hair; she shifted, pushing her weight against his, until they rolled and suddenly she was saddled on his lap, her knees hitched around his waist. Her hair was thrown over one shoulder, baring the vulnerable skin of her throat; his teeth grazed the skin there, biting hard; she gasped, her fingernails spasming into his shoulders.

When they at last broke apart, they stilled their hands and looked at each other. Her pale skin gleamed with perspiration; he caught the steady trickle of sweat as it dripped down her neck. A miniature pond had gathered in the hollow at her throat. He could see her pulse pounding beneath her skin, could feel it vibrating up through his fingertips and deep into the marrow of his bones.

Julian wondered how he must appear to her at this moment, whether he was having the same reaction she was having to him.

Emma smiled. Somehow it seemed to him a _breathless_ smile. "Next time," she said, "tie them tighter."

He caught the wicked gleam in her eyes then, and was about to inquire if there was ever going to be a next time when she shoved him down by his shoulders, none too gently. Julian watched her as she fiddled with the buckle on his jeans, popped open the button, and tugged them off. She held her hands out to him, palms up. Perplexed, he entwined his fingers with hers – and then she raised herself up onto her knees and gently guided his hands to the waistband of her own jeans.

He swallowed and averted his eyes. He suddenly became exceptionally interested in the unopen box of Tampax lying on her dresser. Emma touched his cheek, so, so gently, it sent prickles running over his skin. "Julian." Her voice was soft, almost soothing. "Jules, look at me. Look at me, Julian."

He did. He met her eyes for a brief moment – they gleamed an exquisite melted-chocolate colour – before they rested once again on her hands. He continued to watch as Emma slowly, seductively, guided them up, up, up and over her stomach, before releasing them, and they automatically hooked into the waistband of her jeans. They continued to rest there as Jules hesitated –

"Stop caring," Emma whispered, pressing a feather-brush kiss to his throat. "Stop worrying. Stop hesitating." Another kiss, lower this time. "Let it all go. Be free." Her mouth found his. Too absorbed in her essence, Julian was too distracted to notice her fingers unbuttoning her jeans; he only noticed once they were off, and he was running his fingertips over the smooth skin of her legs, his fingernails burrowing forcefully into her flesh.

They rolled sideways, clinging to each other as if they would otherwise drown, the shape of their bodies melding together like clay. Emma's hands explored his body, flexing over his biceps, winding up and fisting in his hair, rucking up under his shirt. At one point the cloth seemed to become too much for her; she ran her fingers up and under the hem of it, lifting it until it slung over his head where it was discarded thoughtlessly.

He was bare-chested now, and if there had ever been doubt about his appearance, that she would judge him because he was afraid he wouldn't meet her preferences, they never spoke of it. Their words were lost in the clash of their lips, the force of their bodies as they pushed at the boundaries, wanting nothing more to be between them, not even skin.

At last, when Emma was positioned once again on his lap, he reached up with a trembling hand and unclasped her bra. Emma regarded him through half-lidded eyes as his eyes raked her, swallowing up the familiar and unfamiliar parts of her, the unknown territory he had never seen of her before. Somehow it made her seem – whole.

Jules reached up, touched her cheek. "Are you real?" His voice caught; he felt as if something were lodged in his throat, preventing words from pouring out in a tumult.

The corner of Emma's mouth quirked. She reached up with her own hand, her fingers trailing a prickling path down his left cheek. Her eyes gleamed gold in the sunlight. "I've never felt more alive," she whispered back, and leaned down, and kissed him.

It was a soft, lingering kiss, as if she never wanted to let go, as if she were determined to never let this moment fade into nothing but their memories.

And when there was nothing between them but skin, still they pushed and shoved at the boundaries. His body slid against hers, sweat and clammy skin and burning desire grinding against another's, gasps and moans and screams of pleasure, pleas and demands for more. They existed in the moment, entangling their limbs together as if engulfed in flames.

Later would be the brief flashes of clarity, the memory of her fingernails raking across the slope of his back, opening up deep gashes and trails of blood in their wake. The taste of her lips, Emma, just Emma, and the smooth sensation of her legs beneath his palms. The metallic taste of blood as they nipped at each other's lips, a taste that soon contributed to the heat of the moment. The firm pressure of her legs around his waist as he hovered above her, gasping and breathless, and the ragged sound of their breaths as they filled the room, when at last they lay beside each other, wrapped in sticky sheets and the memory of what they had just done.

Emma's chest rose and fell unevenly. "You know," she gasped, a sly smile shaping her lips, "we didn't put that whip to much use."

She looked meaningfully at him. Jules, who hours ago knew not even the deepest parts of her, followed her train of thought.

And he smiled wickedly.


End file.
